I saw this idea work pretty well on another forum, and after an experience earlier on today in red dead redemption undead nightmare, I feel compelled to try it here.
The premise is that you post a dramatic writing of a memorable videogame experience. Non-scripted moments would be preferred, but this is an experimental thread anyway, go ahead and do it if you think you can make it interesting.
Here's mine;
The premise is that you post a dramatic writing of a memorable videogame experience. Non-scripted moments would be preferred, but this is an experimental thread anyway, go ahead and do it if you think you can make it interesting.
Here's mine;
John marston had never heard of an entire town being "lost" before. But then again, a lot of things had happened in the last two weeks since he rode out of beachers hope. For one thing, his wife and son who he had spent so long trying to return to had tried to eat him, as his uncle had also tried prior to Marston shooting him in the face, and as half of new austin had tried to do after he left his newly-rabid wife and son tied up at his home. He had also came across and to his surpise, broken a horse that perpetually burns and never tires. He had saved several towns from hordes of dead men walking. In his search for the truth, he had burned coffins on the advice of a crazy grave robber, and even once again worked for ageing conman nigel west dickens, which was something Marston had thought he'd never force himself to do again. Needless to say, he wondered what he should be looking for more desperately; a cure to this horrifying plight, a very well trained psychologist, or simply a way to wake up.
He was riding to Armadillo on grave news. Shortly after providing Nigel with a mix of herbs with which to create a special bullet coating that burned with all the intensity of his current strange breed of horse, he had stopped of at fort mercer, now turned from a home for bandits to a refuge for survivors and the remnants of the local national guard, to rest and look for other ways to get out of this unholy mess. That's when he heard from other survivors that armadillo had fallen, not a single man, woman or child left. Not alive, at least.
After that, he rode to confirm or deny the rumours. Armadillo had helped him greatly during his quest to find his former gang partners, and he couldn't rest easy not knowing the fate of this largely kind town. The sun was setting over the desert, darkness coating the land, but he could still see the outline of armadillo on the horizon. There were no lights, increasing his concern. He spurred his beastly horse to go even faster, leaving trails of hellish fire in his its wake.
His arrival in Armadillo did nothing to calm his nerves. The dead wondered around the main street. This had happened before, but this was different. No screams. No shouts. No gunshots. Nothing but the soft moaning of the living dead. He stepped off the horse, unholstering his winchester rifle. Plenty of bullets, good at a wide array of ranges, his personal favourite gun. He calmed himself. "C'mon, john, you've done this so many times, you're used to this crap by now." He thought to himself. He aimed, and fired. One cadaver's head exploded, while the rest snapped their heads towards him, alerted to his prescence by the lone gunshot. They began their slow advance, but he wasn't phased yet. One down, two down, three down. He was cold to wondering what lives they lived now. He knew if he wondered too long, they'd close in, and someone would be wondering about him. The only two of these creatures he cared about now were tied up back at beachers hope. More undead filled the street. From alleyways, from doors, even from roofs. They seemed to come from where-ever their first life ended.
Four down, five down. Still no voices, no other gunshots. This and the approaching wave of the dead tested the strength of Marston's calm. Six, seven, eight, the more he downed, the more came from the shadows. He had to move. He ran to the side of the saloon turning to pop off two shots at a rotting businessman, the second piercing his brain and knocking him to the ground. He had learned that height was good against the undead, so he went for the stairs, turning at top. He fired, but the dead were far too many to be held back, this was when Marston's calm shattered into a thousand pieces. The dead filled the stairway, the tight space emphasising their number. "Oh shit, SHIT!" John thought, pulling out a molotov cocktail and throwing it at the top of the stairs, instantly setting the leading corpses alight and leaving a patch of fire he hoped would weaken the following grim parade.
He backed into the saloon's balcony doors, putting away his winchester in favour of a sawed off shotgun given to him by the sheriff of this former town, when suddenly, an undead whore leapt at him screeching for blood. He fired practically into her mouth, showering him in blood. He pushed the body aside as he realised with terror that the indoor balcony before him was blocked by two cadavers shuffling out of the rooms. He loaded another shell hearing the dead from the stairs approaching behind, and fired both barrels forward at roughly head height, killing one of them and knocking down the other. He ran to the other end and turned to see a flaming horde emerging from the saloon doors. He reloaded again, cursing his preference of break-action shotguns, and fired panicked at the crowd. He didn't stop to think how many it actually killed, and how many it merely knocked to the ground. As he descended the stairs, a corpse he recognised, the bartender, charged towards him. With no time to reload, he pulled out his revolver and shot him between the eyes. Once on the floor, he didn't know where to go. They were outside the front door in their droves, and the bar would only be a suitable place to hold off for so long, not long enough. He headed out the back door, shooting another rotting whore as he went.
The horde was on his tail, bursting out of the door right behind him. One he shot, one he struggling with, one, two, three, four, shots, missed. He ran for the fence, and climbed over, buying him time to reload and shoot the two that struggled with climbing over themselves. He shot the rest of the stragglers by the side of the saloon with relative ease, coming back to where he got off the horse. He calmed himself as much as possible again to face the four in the main street. One down. Two down. Three down. He shot the fourth in the shoulder, knocking him onto his back. Marston placed his boot on the dead man's chest. He was a worker that had assisted howard moon at his shop. Now he was just another dead man. Marston aimed the revolver at the corpse's head, and shot, the gunfire echoing in a once again quiet Armadillo. Marston breathed hard. surveying the dead lying around him, listening for more groans. Nothing. Armadillo would be quiet for quite some time. The town may be dead, but at least now, it could rest in peace.
He was riding to Armadillo on grave news. Shortly after providing Nigel with a mix of herbs with which to create a special bullet coating that burned with all the intensity of his current strange breed of horse, he had stopped of at fort mercer, now turned from a home for bandits to a refuge for survivors and the remnants of the local national guard, to rest and look for other ways to get out of this unholy mess. That's when he heard from other survivors that armadillo had fallen, not a single man, woman or child left. Not alive, at least.
After that, he rode to confirm or deny the rumours. Armadillo had helped him greatly during his quest to find his former gang partners, and he couldn't rest easy not knowing the fate of this largely kind town. The sun was setting over the desert, darkness coating the land, but he could still see the outline of armadillo on the horizon. There were no lights, increasing his concern. He spurred his beastly horse to go even faster, leaving trails of hellish fire in his its wake.
His arrival in Armadillo did nothing to calm his nerves. The dead wondered around the main street. This had happened before, but this was different. No screams. No shouts. No gunshots. Nothing but the soft moaning of the living dead. He stepped off the horse, unholstering his winchester rifle. Plenty of bullets, good at a wide array of ranges, his personal favourite gun. He calmed himself. "C'mon, john, you've done this so many times, you're used to this crap by now." He thought to himself. He aimed, and fired. One cadaver's head exploded, while the rest snapped their heads towards him, alerted to his prescence by the lone gunshot. They began their slow advance, but he wasn't phased yet. One down, two down, three down. He was cold to wondering what lives they lived now. He knew if he wondered too long, they'd close in, and someone would be wondering about him. The only two of these creatures he cared about now were tied up back at beachers hope. More undead filled the street. From alleyways, from doors, even from roofs. They seemed to come from where-ever their first life ended.
Four down, five down. Still no voices, no other gunshots. This and the approaching wave of the dead tested the strength of Marston's calm. Six, seven, eight, the more he downed, the more came from the shadows. He had to move. He ran to the side of the saloon turning to pop off two shots at a rotting businessman, the second piercing his brain and knocking him to the ground. He had learned that height was good against the undead, so he went for the stairs, turning at top. He fired, but the dead were far too many to be held back, this was when Marston's calm shattered into a thousand pieces. The dead filled the stairway, the tight space emphasising their number. "Oh shit, SHIT!" John thought, pulling out a molotov cocktail and throwing it at the top of the stairs, instantly setting the leading corpses alight and leaving a patch of fire he hoped would weaken the following grim parade.
He backed into the saloon's balcony doors, putting away his winchester in favour of a sawed off shotgun given to him by the sheriff of this former town, when suddenly, an undead whore leapt at him screeching for blood. He fired practically into her mouth, showering him in blood. He pushed the body aside as he realised with terror that the indoor balcony before him was blocked by two cadavers shuffling out of the rooms. He loaded another shell hearing the dead from the stairs approaching behind, and fired both barrels forward at roughly head height, killing one of them and knocking down the other. He ran to the other end and turned to see a flaming horde emerging from the saloon doors. He reloaded again, cursing his preference of break-action shotguns, and fired panicked at the crowd. He didn't stop to think how many it actually killed, and how many it merely knocked to the ground. As he descended the stairs, a corpse he recognised, the bartender, charged towards him. With no time to reload, he pulled out his revolver and shot him between the eyes. Once on the floor, he didn't know where to go. They were outside the front door in their droves, and the bar would only be a suitable place to hold off for so long, not long enough. He headed out the back door, shooting another rotting whore as he went.
The horde was on his tail, bursting out of the door right behind him. One he shot, one he struggling with, one, two, three, four, shots, missed. He ran for the fence, and climbed over, buying him time to reload and shoot the two that struggled with climbing over themselves. He shot the rest of the stragglers by the side of the saloon with relative ease, coming back to where he got off the horse. He calmed himself as much as possible again to face the four in the main street. One down. Two down. Three down. He shot the fourth in the shoulder, knocking him onto his back. Marston placed his boot on the dead man's chest. He was a worker that had assisted howard moon at his shop. Now he was just another dead man. Marston aimed the revolver at the corpse's head, and shot, the gunfire echoing in a once again quiet Armadillo. Marston breathed hard. surveying the dead lying around him, listening for more groans. Nothing. Armadillo would be quiet for quite some time. The town may be dead, but at least now, it could rest in peace.
